Kings Of The Field
by HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: "Uh, is that supposed to make me feel better?" "No, but it means you can make jokes with Dean later about how well he handles balls." Sam isn't going to dignify that with an answer, not matter how right she is.


It takes five whole minutes, but the wait is worth it; seeing a two hundred piece marching band, decked out in full uniform for the first time that season is a truly impressive sight. South Deacon's colors are blue and white, bright and bold and complete with the silver helmets the eponymous Raider Regiment gleams. Sam feels a rush of pride down his spine as he watches them, marching in place to the three-snare quarter, quarter, half note roll; keep it simple until everyone's in place, then let the drumline do their thing.

It's the first Friday in October, which means Sam's been head drum major since June. Four or so months of sectionals, rehearsals, and a lot of hours spent in a place that he's thankful to be leaving at the end of the school year. South Deacon High has its good memories sure, but Sam's ready to see a little of the world beyond Deacon County, Georgia. Of course, this is his pride and joy, putting together what was already a very good marching band and making them into something forceful, something that catches the eye and holds attention just like the as of yet undefeated football team. No matter, as Sam could give less of a hoot about football.

Okay, he does give a _little_ bit of a hoot – his boyfriend is the starting quarterback.

"Mark! Time! Mark!" Sam's voice – along with his other two assistant drum majors – carries forth, not an extra sound to beard from the band from back to front.

 _Dut dut dut dut_ on every snare and quad tom, and then the Fletcher Deacon Football Stadium is resounding with the strong, almost deafening cadence of the band's twenty five man and woman drumline, complete with all six sizes of bass drum. It's the first year since Sam's attended South Deacon that they've had people strong enough to carry all six. Not that last year was bad with five, but to have all six, well, it's a thrill. Sam's gliding roll step is second nature at this point and he makes sure to adjust his long stride back so that he's not ahead of Cas and Zeke, flanking him, four paces to each side each.

Sam wears no helmet, and neither is his uniform blue and white; it's the same style – jacket and suspenders cum pants – but solid black. The bun he has his hair in is a touch too tight and the few strands he didn't manage to catch when he tied it back blow about his face and tickle his already flushed cheeks. Practice that afternoon before the game had gone well enough but for the particularly strong sun, and he feels the lingering burn.

The heat in his body shifts lower when he catches sight of Dean.

Dean's already done up in his pads and cleats, wearing the blue home jersey. He's painted his cheeks black, right across the tops, the perfect little spikes that he'd started the day with ruined and matted from where he'd had his helmet on. Now it dangles in his left hand, his right propped up on the fence. Sam catches his eyes for a split second, thinking _you look fucking_ good and hoping Dean picks up on the message.

Given the quick slide of Dean's gaze down his body, he got the message loud and clear.

Sam has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling, wanting to remain impassive and serious. The Raider Regiment has a standing tradition of discipline when it's game time and Sam isn't about to compromise that because he was thinking about his hunky, green-eyed and freckle skinned boyfriend.

There are a few whistles of impression, a couple cat calls as the band passes the home bleachers, sixty feet high and packed to capacity. Sam likes that that sort of support is shown for them, even if he feels like the uniform objectifies him a touch. It's tight in the ass and thank God he's wearing compression shorts, or the whole world would see what Dean's long since termed "The Royal Sceptre." Sam hardly thinks his junk deserves to be termed with royalty but hey, whatever makes Dean happy.

By the time they reach the end of the field, Sam's thoughts are halfway between Dean's butt in a jockstrap and the six-measure burst of 7/8 time in the show; he's still having trouble finding a clear and concise way to conduct that.

"Sam?"

Cas's soft whisper makes him lift his head.

"Parade rest?"

"Shit, yeah." Sam turns around, claps twice, and calls for parade rest. They have three full minutes before they can move out onto the field for the national anthem – not the traditional U.S. Marine Band arrangement, oh no – the John Williams 2004 Rose Bowl arrangement. Sam's got a healthy respect for showmanship and when he'd made the suggestion to Dr. Wallis earlier that year, she'd agreed to the experiment.

Now the crowd expects it.

Sam's focus shifts to the visitor stands, where the North Blackwell Stallions wait. Dean had explained at great length how _it's the first big conference game, Sammy, you gotta pick some good and loud stuff_ two weeks ago and Sam had tried hard, made his request known to Dr. Wallis. It's not that she doesn't listen to the opinions of others seriously – she really does – but "good" and "loud" had made her laugh. When it came right down to it, half of the music in the flip folders had been new, including one of Sam's own arrangements. Postmodern Jukebox had inspired him and thanks to a whole weekend of lost sleep and rushed homework, they now had a brand new (illegally copyrighted) arrangement of "Uptown Funk" to give a whirl.

Good and loud, indeed.

Twenty seconds before go time, Sam calls everyone to attention.

Ten seconds – the cadence sounds off.

Five, four, three, two, one – chest out, eyes forward, and the Raider Regiments spreads out to both twenty yard lines, eight ten people deep on each line – and that's not counting guard, either.

Sam's still got Dean's body on the brain as he steps up on the small podium and gets into position. Come on, Wesson, focus – plenty of time to ponder Dean's finer features later.

Trumpet fanfares pierce the somewhat humid night, and John William's spectacular arrangement sounds well enough that night that a standing ovation is accorded to the Raiders – and Sam finally allows himself a smile.

Getting a two hundred piece marching band past the back hash for the football team to make the entrance shouldn't be a quick transition – and yet it is. As soon as the last note of the Star Spangled Banner has died away, drumline has already sounded off and leads the march back, white and blue a slow turning sea as they move backwards. Sam once saw a saxophone take an accidental hit from a lineman when they came out; since the band's always been very, very careful to give the players plenty of room.

Sam stands waiting, back turned to the band, looking for broad shoulders and helmets. Alright, he's looking for Dean specifically (who earlier wasn't even supposed to be out of the field house) and while getting a full look at him is unlikely, he can try at least.

The cheerleaders line up, pom-poms at the ready. Sam turns around, as do Cas and Zeke twenty yards to his right and left.

Deacon Stadium's PA system is boomingly loud, and Sam's lapsed into his thoughts again when Mr. Donovan's radio sports announcer voice cuts through the night: "Ladies and gentleman, get on your feet for your South, Deacon, Raiders!" The last three words have enough emphasis placed on them that it's highly unlikely that anyone the next county over wouldn't know who was favored to win tonight.

Sam whips up the band into the fight song, low brass thundering out the near-martial main theme. Sam thinks he hears his name called out above the din, a fast "lookin' good, Sammy!" in Dean's gorgeous drawl. It might be imagined as well, so he throws himself into the last strain and most everyone plays twice as loud, trying to pin Sam and everyone else in the stadium to the dew-wet field.

The buzzer for pregame's end sounds, and it's a hustle to get off the field as North Blackwell finally puts on their game faces and shit, they might actually give South Deacon a run for their money.

Sam spies "Winchester" on the back of a jersey and quickly sneaks a look at the ass below it, a stir of heat low in his belly making him forget for just a second that he's supposed to be helping with the intimidation factor this evening.

Angie and Mary – his mom and aunt – are sitting halfway up next to where the band sits. His mom smiles as he takes his place at the foot of the bleachers, right behind the dance team where they occupy the first two rows. They're done up prettily and Sam winks at Ruby; she had been his first girlfriend way back in middle school before he and Dean had it all figured out – and had remained good friends in the interim.

"Gonna knock 'em dead, aren't you Sam?" She turns around halfway, not yet time to do anything since South Deacon's on offense.

Sam looks at the top of the bleachers, watching percussion get in place. There's a lot of them, so putting those drums on their stands takes some effort.

"Maybe not dead – but they're feeling it tonight." Sam gestures towards the band with a swell of pride. "Surprised you didn't hear us in last quarter today."

"Oh I did – could almost hear you counting off all the way up in the five hundred hall."

"Aren't those classrooms like, sound proof?"

Ruby gives a shrug of her slender shoulders. "Guess not."

"Might want to cover your ears, if that's the case."

"Hey, if I'm gonna go deaf, it might as well be because of Sam Wesson's marching band."

Sam dips his head and smiles. "Not really my band, Ruby."

"Aw, hush – it's definitely your band."

The crowd roars their approval of a take down, drawing Sam's attention to the field. Dean's pacing back and forth behind his line, and Sam can see his mouth moving behind the grille of his helmet, even from here. From what little of his face that he can actually make out, Dean's fully engaged right now, all intensity and barely coiled energy, ready to go. He's not the biggest guy on the field by a long stretch but the way he's holding himself, God – it's magnetic. Sam watches as Dean lifts his arm, points, gestures, resets; his biceps are bulging even more today than normal, and Sam kind of wants to put his mouth all over them.

"Baby, you're drooling again." Ruby nudges him before Sam's caught staring. She's one of three people in the world that know he and Dean are together in a very serious sort of way.

"Am not." Sam turns his back to the field, trying to focus on conducting.

It's not long before South Deacon's on defense, the score still naught for both.

Showtime.

Sam holds up his index finger – first chart in your folders – and he's got his arms in the air. The greasy, bluesy chords of "Goldfinger" sound out, except Sam takes it at twice the speed Shirley Bassey cut the song at, making it even more upbeat and dangerous. More than a few people sing along and that has enough of an effect that Sam has the last chorus repeated, louder and smearier than before. Let them loosen up and play a little sloppy now so that halftime is the big event.

Dean actually turns and applauds for a moment, pointing at Sam like "this fucking guy, right _here_ " and Sam does blush this time.

Ruby nudges him in the side and Sam bats her away, embarrassed enough as it is. Count on Dean to do stuff like that – by the same turn, Dean is his best friend along with being his boyfriend. Sam really has the best of both worlds here.

The sweat finally starts to roll down his back when he puts his arms down.

South Deacon doesn't score in the first quarter, neither does North Blackwell – it's all push and pull, no one advancing or gaining. Lines have been drawn in the sand and Sam watches as Dean keeps strategizing, looking for a way around, anything to make it to the end of the field. Sam keeps the adrenaline pumping, going through "Shake It Off", a fast, wham-bam medly from "Star Wars" and even "Barnum and Bailey's Favorite" – he's not trying to wear out the band but he's going to help push if he can.

The first quarter ends, South Deacon having finally gained ten yards in their favor.

Sam makes eye contact with Dean from across the stadium and shrugs. Dean grins at him, teeth showing around his mouth guard. Sam's heart flutters, making his uniform feel a touch too tight and he has to turn around before he starts to sweat even more.

Time to pull out one of the bigger guns.

He gets Zeke's attention – he's got a loud, booming voice that should carry up to the top of the stands. "Rolling Thunder, Zeke."

"Rolling Thunder!"

Those four syllables are passed all the way to the top and everyone is on their feet in a second. Sam and Zeke spread out, Cas halfway up the stands so that the rest of the band can see direction. Sam counts off, a fast, slashing two, and Henry Fillmore's showy march rips out of the bells of those glorious trombones, all seventeen of them; Zeke's the one responsible for that, having drilled them to perfection and precision. Sam kind of wants to take up his drumsticks and go bang a drum and contribute to the noise – oh well.

On the break strain, the percussion drops out, poised for the effect Sam wrote in at the beginning of the season. On the last repeat of the second strain, all of his snares and bass drums come in on this mighty, swelling roll, absolutely like thunder. A couple games ago, some part of the crowd got the idea to stamp their feet along with it and now the whole stadium shakes, and South Deacon comes to life – before Sam's even aware of it, a touchdown is scored, 6-0, and the last few notes are lost in a roar of approval.

The satisfaction that Sam feels is almost sexual.

He turns to look at Dean and yeah, Dean's feeling it too, backslaps and clenched fists and how on earth he manages to not hurt himself while head-butting his team mates is beyond Sam.

The second quarter is halfway over, 7-0 for the field goal, and Sam starts to assemble his troops for halftime. The show they've chosen this year is a killer, a fast, bold arrangement of music from Hollywood's Golden Age. Sam's had a blast learning the score – and watching the movies the music came from with Dean. Not only had it been fun, but Sam's glad that the boner he has for Errol Flynn wasn't limited to just him. (Even if it had been a little bit of a turn off when Dean had called him Captain Thorpe one day when he and Sam were dry humping.)

14-0, South Deacon – now the line's been broken and Sam has no worries they'll win. Now he just has to give them a good show.

Halftime comes and Sam feels a bit like he's dreaming, marching to centerfield and then turning fast towards the sideline; his podium is ready and waiting. He ascends, watching Cas and Zeke take their own to his sides. Being so large a band, it's hard to execute a lot of drill but that's not so bad, considering that transcribed and re-arranged Korngold isn't the easiest music to play in the world. It still needs some work but Sam's proud that they're more sure-footed now than they have been since the summer rehearsals. Persistence has certainly paid off and maybe one day when he's got his own band, he can impart as much knowledge as he can.

His bun feels a little looser now than it did two hours ago, and he wonders if he should try and tighten it back up before he starts to wave his arms too hard. Ah well, if it comes loose, it comes loose.

The first, great fanfare from "The Sea Hawk" comes out so well that Sam's nearly knocked off of his podium. The fact that he has tears in his eyes by the time the first song is over shouldn't be surprising to anyone. He just blinks them away and dives right into the rest of the music, pushing and pulling and coaxing out what he thinks is an incredible sound for this early in the season; next week's competition is going to be a cinch if everyone keeps playing like this.

The crowd's on their feet as the last notes of the Ben-Hur theme ring and Sam's honest to God humbled, extending his arms out so that it's directed at the band, not him. He has to scramble off the podium though, since they only have a minute to clear the field for the football team

Dean was on the sideline the whole time, the only player left and once again, his helmet's off. He claps Sam on the shoulder as he marches past. The quick intimacy of the contact makes Sam's heart swell, and now he can't wait for the game to be over, craving Dean's closeness and body.

Mary's got a hug for him along with a big bottle of water as he makes his way back to the stands.

"I sent a video to Dad, told him he's really missing out tonight." Mary scoots over so that Sam can sit, the top buttons of his uniform undone so he can dab at the sweat on his neck.

"He'll see it next week though, right?" His Dad, also named Sam, is the chief of the Deacon Fire Department. Sam admires his Dad's commitment to the job – Sam comes by his sense of duty honestly – but it would be nice if he'd be in the stands just _once_ this season.

"I hope so, for his sake – if not, I'll go down to that station and drag him here myself." Sam hopes it doesn't come to that, as Mary Wesson can be a terrifying woman when she so chooses. You don't run your own landscaping business without some brass in your knuckles.

Sam laughs anyway, the image of his mother dragging Dad, the big, burly fellow he is, by the ear to the football game popping into his mind.

"Remind me not to make you angry anymore." Sam stands up and hugs Aunt Angie, handing him a hot dog and commenting on how well it sounded; Sam likes Aunt Angie, always has. She's the one who taught Sam how to play the piano, having been on the way to a virtuoso career before an incident with sliding van door had broken her fingers when she was twenty five.

"See, Mary, this is why it's good to have a pianist on the podium – they hear _everything._ " Sam rolls his eyes, already replaying the dialogue of this oft-tread argument in his head.

"Ang, please – you know I can't tell that much of a difference." Mom's often joked that all she can play is the radio.

"All you have to do is _listen."_

"I was, Angie, and it sounded nice."

Angie scoffs. "Sounded better than just _nice,_ Mary."

Sam sighs and looks down the bleachers, hoping for someone to come to his rescue. Coming up the steps is Dean's dad, John. "Hey look, it's John!"

John sticks his hand out before he's even in range of Sam. "Sounded good son – got here right as you got on the podium."

Sam's finally strong enough – after years, now that he thinks about it – to squeeze John's hand back with the same amount of force. "Thanks, John." He's always been a touch intimidated by John, mainly on account of the fact that he's person number two who knows about himself and Dean. Whether or not he's ever been okay with that, Sam has yet to determine.

Sam's saved by South Deacon scoring another touchdown, and it's a shame that it's the bands off quarter – Sam would like nothing better than to play the fight song loud and fast. Sam roars with them, almost as loudly as John.

Dean chest bumps with one of his teammates – maybe Gabe, Sam can't see the back of his jersey – and claps, another round of congratulations for his teammates. Sam can picture the sweat on his face and hear the adrenaline making his heart beat, fast and loud. Sam already knows that he won't be going to bed tonight without getting Dean off; victory always makes him horny.

Good thing that Sam's been nursing a semi on and off since third period today when Dean had decided to show off the bruise on his hipbone to one of his friends and Sam had just so happened to have seen it. He's been intimately familiar with that particular spot on Dean's body for quite some time now, and makes a point to refresh the hickies there as often as he can.

"How's he been doing, Mary?" John sits down next to Sam and finally he slips away, leaving his mom to talk football with John. Sam heads down the bleachers, thinking that either some M&M's or cheesey nachos would finish this hot dog off perfectly. He wolfs it down and licks his lips – Dean just so happens to look in his direction right as Sam's licking his fingers and fuck Sam six ways to Sunday, Dean actually reaches down and grabs at his crotch, his helmet off and those gorgeous green eyes boring right into Sam.

Sam smiles back and gives his index finger a hard suck before he winks at Dean and goes to find Ruby. Best not to get in trouble if they can help it. Still, he wants to taste the salt of excitement on Dean's lips and the thrum of his muscles under his tongue.

"Sam, stop distracting the players." Ruby pops up next to him and hands him an Air Head – cherry flavor.

"I wanted M&Ms."

"Sorry love, but they're all out." Ruby flaunts her yellow bag and rips it open slowly, pouring out those perfect little orbs into her right palm and caressing them between her fingers.

"Uh, is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, but it means you can make jokes with Dean later about how well he handles balls."

Sam isn't going to dignify that with an answer, not matter how right she is.

"Give me an M&M, or I'll exorcise you back to the candyless hell from which you came." Sam sticks out his hands Ruby obliges, shaking her head.

"It's a good thing you're pretty." Ruby then proceeds to pour what's left in the bag into her mouth, purely out of spite.

"Well look at that – that's not the first time you've had your mouth full of nuts, is it?"

Ruby pinches her face up and walks away, a grin already forming on her lips. Sam almost feels sorry for Zeke – he's got his hands full with that one. Good thing Zeke also has the patience of about a dozen saints.

Sam ambles towards the concession stand, speaking to most of the band on the way there, drifting in groups of two or three. The whole of the drumline is in line in front of him in line and he makes sure to speak to every one of them, congratulating them on a job well done, what they need to cover in practice next week. Sam can't hardly wait for concert season, ready to be back behind his beloved marimba and xylophone. He's trying to talk Dr. Wallis into doing something that would feature percussion in the spring – and just in case, Sam's been practicing extra hard.

He's still thinking about a solo feature when the distant buzzer sounds the end of third quarter, and Sam has to hustle to get back to the stands.

Most everyone's already in place, if not necessarily holding their instruments. Ah well, they played a good show – two more minutes isn't going to hurt anything.

North Blackwell scores, and things get tense.

Yes, they're still down by a good margin but Sam wants them to keep holding the line anyway – time to break out the big guns.

"Rolling Thunder" gets played again, fast and loud and this time the foot stomping is so loud that Sam actually becomes concerned for the structural integrity of the stands. If they do go down, at least it'll be in a blaze of glory.

It gains South Deacon another twenty yards, and Sam feels his skin tingle with pride.

Now it's time for something different.

Sam had called a special rehearsal just for "Uptown Funk" and it blessedly hadn't taken that long for them to get it down – everyone knows the song, so that definitely helped. He'd heard more than a few Bruno Mars impressions in the meantime, however.

Sam holds up nine fingers and the excitement is palpable.

They don't have a bunch of electric basses to get that low, punchy bass line out – but South Deacon does have ten sousaphones, and each one is louder than the last. The sound they make as they start their brassy chant is intoxicating, and Sam decides to hell with playing it neat – South Deacon needs a boost.

As each group comes in, Sam feels the prickle of arousal creep up his spine. Between Dean being Dean earlier and the way everyone sounds tonight he can't really help it, that electricity of success that makes his mouth go dry. Hell even Cas gets into it, dancing as much as Sam's ever seen him – thought not quite at the level of Zeke's hip thrusts. Ruby's eyes are as big as saucers, watching her boyfriend break it down. Congratulations Zeke, you're probably gonna get laid later.

Dean's applauding as the song finishes and there's only five minutes left in the game. South Deacon's braced to destroy now, and Sam lets drumline get the crowd going, hammering away two fast, loud cadences. Half of the crowd is on its feet, waving their banners and blowing air horns and trying hard to feed their energy off to the team. There's a certain kind of beauty in the frenzy of it all, and Sam throws himself in with enthusiasm.

The result is South Deacon holding their own, finishing 20-7. If you listened closely enough, you could probably hear the noise a county over – just goes to show how seriously Raider football is taken.

Sam gets lost in the blur, between the last triumphant chorus of the fight song and then marching back to the band hall, loud and happy and perfect; Sam's got a lot to be proud of and before he gets lost in the mass of his friends and fellow players Mary appears, slips him a twenty and says "get yourself some dinner on the way home." She has to be up early tomorrow and he gives her and Aunt Angie a tight hug before they go.

The exhaustion finally hits Sam as he walks Dr. Wallis to her car, everyone else gone home save for him. He hadn't noticed the temperature change but it's cold now, and all Sam has on are his gym shorts and his plaid shirt, his tank top stuck fast to him with sweat that's rapidly cooling. His hair is still up but if he loosens it, it'll just stick to his neck.

That or Dean will do it for him and then he can't really complain because, you know, Dean's hands on his body.

Sam's truck is parked at the far edge of one of the student lots, so it's a decent walk to get there. He's already checked his phone for a message from Dean, having sent a personal congratulations to him. So far, no reply. Sam has his keys in his hand, humming "Goldfinger" as he spies his truck – a dark red, well-loved Chevrolet Silverado – with one extra feature; Dean, sitting on the tailgate.

Sam almost breaks into a run, glad that the parking lot's empty enough to where no one's going to pay he and Dean much attention.

Dean's changed back into his jeans and t-shirt, his battered leather jacket laying next to him on the tailgate.

"Was lookin' for you, Sammy." Dean's drawl is pretty and relaxed, like honey poured over one of his Mom's biscuits. "Thought I'd missed you in the craziness."

Sam stops right in front of Dean, his position on the tailgate making Dean slightly taller. "Well, we had to look for a couple of uniform bags. Freshmen you know, can't keep anything in the right place." Sam puts his bookbag and stick bag down next to Dean's stuff and steps in between Dean's spread legs.

Dean's hands touch his sides as he runs his palms and fingers down his rib cage. "Aw, go easy on 'em baby, they're still learning."

"Yeah well, I couldn't exactly 'hey guys, hurry up, I have to go French my boyfriend.' Doesn't reflect well on me." Sam shivers a little as Dean hooks his feet on the back of Sam's thighs, the leather of his boots cold from the night air against his sweat-sticky skin.

Dean perks up at the mention of Frenching, already sitting up a little straighter and leaning forward. "But you were serious about that, right?" God, he smells like grass and sweat, the black lines under his eyes still there. Sam breathes deep and tangles his fingers in Dean's thin t-shirt. They're so close that all they feel is the pent-up heat from not getting to touch each other all day.

"C'mon Dean, you know I wouldn't hold out on you."

There's always a little rush of triumph over the fact that him, Sam Wesson, is the only person that Dean Winchester kisses on a regular basis. Yes, Dean's a popular hot jock but Sam's known him the longest, grew up with him right across the street from each other – he's always been there.

 _Always._

If only they had known that this would happen, that scary but beautiful transition from best friends to lovers that really they should have seen coming. Sam knows everything about Dean, and Dean knows everything about Sam – there isn't anyone else on the face of the planet that can claim that sort of intimate knowledge.

Dean's tongue slides into his mouth and Sam's thoughts dissipate, replaced by Dean's body and scent and mouth. He still tastes like his mouth guard and victory, sweetish in flavor, underpinned by Dean's warmth. Sam presses a little harder and Dean's mouth opens even more, letting Sam in as his feet cross behind Sam's legs.

It's only when Sam starts to rut against Dean that they decide maybe now is a good time to take this show somewhere else, no matter how painfully obvious his arousal is right now.

Not that it stops Dean from groping his dick through his shorts.

"I'd suck you off right here but my skull kind of hurts. Did you know that running into a bunch of big sweaty guys hurts, Sam?" Dean kisses his neck and works the sweet spot right under his ear, making Sam's will to move nearly evaporate.

Sam tilts his head back so that Dean can go wherever he pleases. "You like it though." God he wants Dean naked and under him right now.

"Eh, you're the only guy I actually _enjoy_ it with though – no matter how much I like victory."

"Don't think that we personally have ever lost." Sam draws him back in for another kiss, his mouth open and tongue out before Dean even finishes the connection. The beautiful thing about kissing Dean is that there is no such thing as too much tongue, and Sam's held true to that philosophy for two years now. Truly, the wetter the better.

Dean lets Sam suck on his tongue for just a moment before he pushes him back. "Sammy, look – I'm hungry and I'm horny and I've already called Gardelli's. If you want me to jerk off while you drive, I can do that but for the love of God, we need to go _now."_

Sam's finally goaded enough to move, and he holds Dean's hips as he lifts him down off the tailgate and gets their stuff off of it. Dean goes for one more fast, sloppy kiss before he lets go of Sam, doing the "I have a raging hard on" walk to the passenger side of the truck.

Sam hits his unlock button and he clambers up, seriously re-thinking the lift kit he put on it over the summer. It'd be nice to not have to climb.

Dean's already got his seatbelt on as Sam turns the key in the ignition. "You looked good up there, by the way." Dean rubs Sam's thigh and strays way too close to his dick. Sam parts his legs in invitation anyway.

"Just good?" Sam grins and backs out of his space, wondering if it's worth breaking the speed limit to get home.

"Alright – damn good." Dean kisses his neck and actually starts to behave himself.

"Thanks – I'd say the same thing to you but I don't want to blow up that ego any more. Not enough room in the truck for it and the both of us.

"Sammy, you know from many, _many_ tests that there is enough room in here for all three of those things." Dean cranks up the air and sighs happily, the sound loud enough for Sam to have to raise his voice a little.

"Dude, my nipples are hard already, don't make it worse."

"Wait, really?" Dean puts his hands on Sam's right pec and rubs the hard point of Sam's nipple where it makes his shirt stick out.

" _Motherfucker,_ " Sam rasps, swatting Dean's hands away and straightening up where he'd suddenly veered towards the shoulder of the road.

"Just pencil me in for later, baby – I'll take care of that for you." Sam can feel Dean's eyes on his crotch. "And that. Jeez Sam, are you even wearing underwear?"

Sam rolls his eyes and makes for the center of town, the mere thought of Southern-honest Italian food making his mouth water. "Yes Dean, I'm wearing underwear."

"Doesn't look like it." Dean's hand is already traveling up the inside of his shorts to test the veracity of that statement.

"Dean you-" Sam's speech is cut short by Dean's fingers finding his balls, loosened up from being hot for so long.

"You're wearing the blue ones today." Dean removes his hand from Sam's pants and replaces it atop his knee. Were it not dark and in town, Sam would hold Dean's hand as he drove.

"I almost don't want to ask how you know that – you haven't seen me in my underwear today."

"Texture, Sammy – they're the most threadbare pair you own." Dean smiles like he's unlocked some big secret of the universe.

"I'm just glad you know how to use the word threadbare properly."

"Well that and we do share it every now and then."

"Dean, most of my underwear is in your dresser anyway."

"Yours are more comfy, Sammy. Keeps my junk nice and centered."

Sam gives a long suffering sigh. "For the hundredth time, why don't you just buy the same kind of underwear that I have?"

Dean leans over and kisses Sam's cheek. "Because, Sammy, it's more fun to steal yours. I like putting my dick where yours has been."

Sam keeps his thoughts on Dean needing to get his kicks in more healthy ways to himself. "Well, if you could please bring them home over the weekend? I'm down to two pairs of Hanes and I'd love to have my Saxx back. Rehearsals go a lot smoother if I'm not being uh, strangled."

"Your wish is my command, babe." Dean gives him another kiss and yawns. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not wearing any right now."

Sam groans, his dick throbbing at Dean's little revelation. "Telling me you're going commando is not helping us get dinner any faster."

"Ah, but I'm not – I'm wearing my jock."

"Again, not helping."

Sam makes Dean go and get the food, which turns out to be a mistake. As soon as he's out of the car and to where Sam can still see him, he lifts the back of his shirt and there it is, the top of Dean's ass and jockstrap plainly visible and out for all the world to see.

Sam blows the horn and makes Dean jump, able to hear his giggle of surprise even inside the cab.

At least Dean splits the breadsticks with him on the way home – cheesy ones, too.

Mary's car is already in the driveway by the time they come to the Wesson house– inherited from Sam's grandfather upon his death when Sam was still in middle school, and they had moved from two doors down the street into the more spacious home that had been built in the early 1920s. Sam loves the old house, because not only does he have enough room for his instruments but he also lives right across the road from Dean. Makes it really easy to sneak around when you live only a couple hundred feet from your boyfriend.

The tension between them grows even heavier without the steady thrum of eight, diesel-fired cylinders. The smell of pepperoni and bacon pizza be damned, Sam wants to kiss Dean again.

Dean notices the way Sam's looking at him, like he's about to consume him whole. "Uh, Sammy?" Dean's fingers are lightly holding onto the pizza box, and Sam reaches for the one nearest him.

"C'mere."

Dean leans over and not two seconds later Sam's got his tongue in his mouth again, and this time he puts a little force behind it. Dean moans, the hand that Sam took coming up to cup Sam's cheek and rub his thumb over his temple. Sam tries to smoothly unbuckle himself, only he's stretched it to its limit and as soon as it releases from the catch, he's pulled back into his seat and away from Dean.

It's not until Dean's unstifled laugh comes out that the moment is lost and Sam's cheeks flush with something other than arousal.

"Don't even pretend you weren't enjoying that." Sam casts off his seatbelt and, deciding that maybe they should wait until there aren't interfering objects in their midst, gets out of the car. Dean starts to follow, only to be stopped by Sam clearing his throat loudly.

"What?"

Sam gestures to the back seat. "You aren't leaving your smelly gear in my truck – again."

"Give back your underwear, don't leave my stuff in your truck – you're full of demands tonight, aren't you?" Dean hands the pizza to Sam over the center console and reaches for his stuff.

"Look, if I don't actually tell you, things don't get gone. And unless you really want to have my interior detailed…"

Dean sticks his tongue out at him. "Oh, I'll detail your interior alright. You just wait and see."

Sam thinks that might be a joke about rimming him, but it could be something else. Best not to ask.

Getting in the house takes entirely too long, between Dean being unhelpful and trying to shove his hand down his pants and Sam not doing a very good job of shrugging him off. Just goes to show how much of a sucker he is for having Dean's hands on his body, even if it's not convenient for him at the moment.

"Mary already in bed?" Dean looks around the darkened living room when they get in, Sam making for the kitchen.

"Guess so – I'll get some plates. Downstairs?" Sam hears Dean come up behind him and rub his sides.

"In a minute." Sam's spun around and then he's got his arms full of Dean, sweat and exertion and grass coloring the visible parts of his skin. Sam's mouth opens, trying to taste the air around him.

Dean stares into his eyes as he reaches for Sam's bun and loosens it, unleashing the thick cascade of damp hair. He smooths it back before it can hide Sam's face, leaning in for a kiss as he does.

Shit, when Dean wants to be a charmer he turns it on like nobody else. Not that Sam needed any further convincing or incentive to get into Dean's pants tonight, of course. Come to think of it, he never really does.

"Your hair is wet." Dean runs his fingers through it – like it wasn't going to be a stringy, slightly curly mess anyway.

"And you doing that is helping… how?" Sam doesn't try to stop him though.

Dean kisses him on the lips, his hands back on Sam's face. Sam puts his hands in Dean's back pockets and squeezes; Dean's ass it the perfect balance between firm and jiggle, all that time in the weight room after school having paid off handsomely. Dean moans again, and Sam feels it in his teeth.

Sam can feel the sweat sticking to his skin where Dean's fingers have a death grip on him and it's getting way, way too hot. Dean's kissing him so hard that Sam can almost feel his lips bruising and he has to gently push Dean back.

"Easy babe, we've got all night." Sam draws a breath and gets his fingers in Dean's hair, stroking tenderly.

"Man, I hope so." Dean grabs Sam's hand and starts for the stairs that lead down to the basement. "C'mon, we can always heat dinner back up."

Sam's not going to argue.

Calling it a basement is an understatement, really. It's a fully equipped third floor, and also where Sam spends the majority of his time. At one point Sam's great grandmother had lived down here rather than be sent to the nursing home, and Sam remembers enough of his early years to recall that time. Once she had passed however, it was offered to Sam for use by "he and his friends, rather than track dirt through my house" – as Mary had put it.

Sam hadn't seen a good reason to say no then, and still doesn't have one now. He lost his virginity to Dean down here, not to mention the many happy hours they've spent with their friends post football games, studying, marathoning movies – Sam loves the space that he can truly call _his._

Dean's still leading him by the hand over to the couch in front of the tv. "C'mon Sam, I'm horny and I know for a fact that you are too."

"Pushy bastard." Sam topples over on top of Dean, catching himself on his hands next to Dean's head. "Let me breathe a little, okay?"

"Hmmm… no." Dean grabs the back of his head and for the third time that night, Sam's making out with Dean like they're reaching for prizes at the backs of each other's throat with their tongues. Sam grinds his hips down, slow and hard, against Dean's. He can feel Dean's hard cock through his shorts, almost certainly no longer contained by his jockstrap.

Time to find out for certain.

Sam sits back and reaches for Dean's belt and zipper, undoing both while staring at Dean's face.

"That was real cute Dean, back at the restaurant. Pretty sure that takes care of the rest of Deacon that hasn't seen your ass before." At least he cooperates in lifting his hips as Sam yanks his jeans and jock down to his knees.

"Yeah, but only one citizen gets to touch it on a regular basis. That makes you feel special, right?" Dean sits up to meet Sam for another kiss, pushing his plaid back off of his shoulders before Sam strips off his tank top.

"I guess – but you football players smack each other's ass all the time. Kind of takes away from feeling exclusive, you know?" Sam reaches for Dean's cock and holy shit he's wet, the pad of Sam's thumb coming away sticky with precome.

Dean makes a noise like he's about to melt into a puddle of horny – yes, it's a noun as well, and Sam believes that purely because Dean is his boyfriend. "Whatever you say Sammy, just… fucking do that again."

"Like this?" Sam puts the tip of his thumb right over Dean's slit and rubs slowly, using the other part of his hand to milk Dean's shaft. Dean's eyes slam shut, his fingers where they're gripping Sam's biceps digging in, hard.

"Shit."

Yeah, Dean's exactly where he wants to be right now, and Sam knows it.

Sam doesn't get to be the torturer for too long though, because some still-thinking part of Dean's brain kicks in and remembers that Sam's not naked yet.

"Since you're the one who's rendered me incapable, you get to take your own pants off." Dean's attempt at making his demand is undone by the involuntary way he tries to fuck Sam's fist.

"Oh, like it's a problem." Sam gets up for a second and shimmies them off, kicking his sneakers away with them. He should be a bro and help Dean out of the rest of his clothes, but they've got the important bits uncovered for now.

He doesn't get the chance anyway, because Dean pulls him back down on top of them and grabs Sam's cock.

"Now, where were we?"

There's a part of Sam's brain that says they should have long ago moved past grinding and frotting together, that there are so many other, better things they could be doing instead. Sam ignores that little voice and takes both he and Dean in hand, lining them up, bottom to bottom, as best he can. Dean's not nearly as long as he is but it still it just doesn't matter – Dean's the only person in the world he ever wants to rub dicks with, and that's that.

Sam drags his hips a little slower once he feels Dean relax into it, his own cock leaking like crazy between them. He uses it to slick up his fingers, moving his hand in conjunction with his hips. He can feel his knuckles bumping against the wide flare of Dean's glans, swollen to capacity. Sam focuses his attention on that inch of space, knowing that this isn't meant to last but damn if it won't be a good, messy ride.

"Shit, baby boy, right fucking there." Dean's hands are all over Sam's back, massaging and caressing and just trying to hold on, he and Sam both wound up so tightly that the tension in Sam's body is palpable.

Sam doubles his efforts and crashes their mouths back together, stroking short and sharp and _perfect,_ making Dean lose his damn mind against his lips and body. Sam rubs them together that much more urgently, the sound of precome slicking the way almost as loud as their breathing. Both of them leak a whole fucking lot, and at no other time is it put to better use than now.

Dean tenses suddenly, and Sam feels the hot, heavy dampness of come against his thumb and fingers. The bleachy smell and body-warmth of it makes Sam's climax follow very shortly. Were it not for the close proximity of their bodies, Dean could be covered from face to navel in spunk.

"That… that was awesome." Dean pulls back and cups Sam's face again, pushing his hair back and smiling up at him.

"And messy." Sam looks down at the puddle of come coating the lower half of Dean's stomach, white and pretty where it's pooled in his navel and matting his treasure trail.

"'S exactly how I like it, too." Dean draws him down for another kiss and this time there's no hurry, just Dean's tongue and a whole lot of endorphins making his vision go fuzzy. Sam knows they can't keep it up for long or they'll be asleep, covered not only in sweat and football field but come as well. Experience has taught him that that combination is only fun for about five minutes, and he'd rather not explain to his mom _again_ why the downstairs couch smells funny.

"Lemme go, babe." Sam struggles to get out of Dean's warm but smelly embrace.

"Do I have to?" Dean does so, and with great reluctance.

"Hey, I only ask because I want to take a shower – and I want you in there with me."

By the time it's all said and done with, their pizza upstairs is long cold.

Totally fucking worth it.

It's not until the next day that Sam starts to feel the ache between his shoulder blades, right at the base of his neck and out towards his arms. The nerves keep protesting and of course don't start to really bother him until he's halfway done with his six mile run.

His only mercy is that Dean actually got up to run with him and appears to be just as achey.

Mary's up when they return to the house, the smell of bacon and coffee perfuming the air with their rich promises of fulfillment.

"Mornin' boys." She kisses both of them on the cheek as they sit down at the bar, shirtless and sweaty. Sam can feel Dean's eyes on his body, sneaking looks every time Mary turns her back. Sam kicks him in the shin so he'll pay attention to his breakfast instead of getting them caught. Dean frowns and kicks Sam back, only for Mary to turn around right before they start to wage full out war on each other.

"Morning Mary." Dean grins at her and starts to shovel down his breakfast, thankfully forgetting about Sam. Mary raises an eyebrow at him, then looks at Sam like "he's your friend, do something about it."

"Thanks for breakfast, Mom." Sam starts to eat his food like a normal person would, silently judging Dean for this whole hungry cave man thing he has going on.

Dean finally gets the message, swallows half of what's in his mouth and manages a garbled "it's really good, Mrs. Wesson."

Mary crosses her arms and shakes her head. "Boy, don't you 'Mrs. Wesson' me. Makes me feel old." Mary puts another helping of scrambled eggs on Dean's plate. "And I am not old – yet."

Dean looks thoroughly intimidated now, especially since his mom's brandishing the spoon like a Bowie knife. "Yes, Mrs. Wesson."

Sam doesn't feel a bit of sympathy for Dean when Mary hits him on the forearm with the spoon.

Mary turns to Sam as she picks up her coffee cup and lunchbox. "Sam, I need you to take care of the yardwork for me. Dad's not gonna be home til tomorrow and I know he'd appreciate it if you took care of it for him. Can you do that for me?"

"Course. Dean's here, he can help me too."

"Hey, I'm not a member of this family."

Mary gives Dean her best "you've got to be kidding me face" and even Sam shrinks back a little. "Dean, sweetheart, when people ask I just call you my other son for the sake of convenience – and you're definitely mine today, seeing as how you left that nasty football bag in my living room last night. Now finish your breakfast and go help your brother with the cutting and the trimming."

With that, Mary's gone and Dean's left looking sullen at having been knocked down a couple pegs.

Sam finishes the last of his coffee and elbows Dean in the side. "What do you say _brother,_ want to go make out for a couple of minutes before we get started?"

"Don't… don't fucking do that, Sammy." Dean's tone contains a hint of threat and if Sam's not mistaken, _arousal._

"Dude, don't tell me you get hot over me calling you brother."

The pink flush that blossoms over Dean's chest gives him away and Sam grins.

"Oh, I'm gonna have fun with this one." Sam gets up and makes sure he wiggles his hips as he carries his plate over to the sink. He feels Dean's eyes on him like laser sights, assessing and trying to make up his mind over how weirded out he is about Sam calling him brother, considering that they've put their mouths all over each other's bodies. Many, many times.

"Sam, don't you…" Dean frowns, his words cut off my Sam stretching his arms over his head, trying to work the knot of ache out of his shoulders.

"Don't what? Show off and flex for my _brother?_ " Okay, now Sam's starting to find this a little too fun. Dean's got a death grip on his knife and fork, his knuckles turning white under his tanned skin.

"Sammy, please, not right now." Dean licks his lips and the light through the window catches on them, making them shiny and dark pink. Sam saunters back over to Dean's place at the bar and leans across it, his nose stopping an inch away from Dean's.

"She's right, you know – when people ask and they don't know us, sometimes I call you my brother too." Sam indulges himself with a little kiss before he backs off, knowing full well that this could get out of control very quickly if he doesn't tread carefully. Once Dean finds something he likes, they both tend to run with it.

Dean gets quiet and stares at the last few bites of breakfast on his plate. "Have you uh, ever thought about it when we were-"

"Having sex? No, but maybe we should try it. Just to see what it's like." Sam doesn't want to push too hard – but Dean's practically said yes already.

Dean's gaze meets Sam's, his eyes darkening with lust. "I'd be okay with that."

"Really?" Sam isn't sure when his voice decided to come out at a half growl, but that's what happens. Dean's throat bobs as he swallows, and Sam can feel his breath against his face.

"Yeah. Fuck, Sammy, think that's the fastest I've ever gotten hard." Dean stands up and shows Sam his bulge, tenting out the front of his gym shorts.

Sam walks around the corner of the bar and snakes his left arm around Dean's waist, pressing their bodies together. "Gotta do work first though." Sam plunges his hand into Dean's shorts and grips his cock, giving it a couple strokes before he lets him go.

"Do we _have_ to?"

The sound of the front door opening makes them break apart, and Sam hurries over to the coffee pot, pretending to busy himself with pouring another cup while Dean crosses his legs and resituates himself on his stool.

Mary comes into the kitchen, her sunglasses pushed up on her forehead. "Forgot my phone – wait, why do you too look guilty?"

Sam gives her what he hopes is a dazzling smile and hopes he's not blushing too hard. "We were talking about girls."

"I don't even want to know – see you later, boys."

As far as close saves go, Sam credits himself for that being a pretty good one.

Whether or not Dean agrees, Sam never finds out.

Sam had managed to escape two whole months of yard work – between marching band and his relatively heavy course load, he's not had a lot of time to think about it. Right now he's wishing he could have gotten out of it one more time.

He and Dean had tossed to see who did what; Dean's doing the trimming around the house and pond while Sam mows the back yard. They'll trade off when Dean's finished with that and Sam will trim the back yard and around the tool shed, barn, and along their property line.

Needless to say, it makes for a whole afternoon of hot, sweaty work that Sam's not exactly enjoying.

Since it's still relatively warm outside, Sam's stripped to the waist and wearing old, raggedy jeans that have more holes than anything else in them. So far none are in terribly embarrassing places but Sam figures he's only got about three more times bending at the knees before they rip right down the middle – he's got a feeling Dean would be more than happy to bear witness to that incident as well.

Dean makes an adorably dorky sight in his black gym shorts and boots, shirtless like Sam and singing along quite loudly to his earbuds. Sam's nearly run into the side of the house a couple times when he's caught sight of him, because those shorts make his ass look fantastic, on top of which Sam's 99% sure he's not wearing any underwear right now, either. Dean had disappeared before they'd come outside and he'd come up from the basement looking rather smug and sneaky about _something._ Sam wonders if it has something to do with the whole brother situation – better to ask later, anyway.

Trust Dean to make something as boring as yard work entertaining. Not that Sam's ever actively entertained any sexy gardener fantasies, that is.

He's nearly done with the strip of grass he's working on when the mower coughs, once, twice, and then dies underneath him with a groan and a backfire, loud enough to make Sam jump. He stamps on the break hard and turns the key, only to get a couple clicks of the starter in return.

"The hell?" Sam swings his left leg over the steering wheel and hops off, pushing his hair back out of his face as he unscrews the gas cap and his suspicions are confirmed – empty.

The barn is a good five hundred feet from his current position and there's no way around it, he's just going to have to get the gas can and come back. Sam sighs and wipes the sweat from his face with his hand and sets off towards the barn.

The sound of the trimmer stops and a minute later he's joined by Dean, grass covered and just as sweaty as Sam. He looks awfully happy for someone who's been voluntarily pelted in the face with all manner of grass and leaves. How Dean always manages to cover himself from head to toe in the stuff is beyond Sam.

"Hey, baby." Dean leans up and kisses Sam on the cheek. "Where you goin?"

"Gas." Sam gestures back at the stopped mower.

"Cool." Dean looks around like he's expecting someone to see them. "Want to make out for a while?"

"Uh, no. I want to get this done so I don't get my ass ridden later. You know how Dad is after he comes off a long shift." Sam steps into the barn and makes for the right corner, past the old John Deere tractor and farming equipment that's just "in the family" and probably won't be gotten rid of in Sam's lifetime.

"Yeah well… fifteen minutes isn't gonna hurt." Dean puts the trimmer down and reaches for his shirt, discarded next to where he'd put fresh line on the trimmer when they'd started.

"And you know that once we start, we won't stop." Sam hefts the first can, finds it empty, and then starts to go down the line of six to see which has the most.

"You're no fun, _brother."_

So no, Dean hadn't forgotten about that.

"Dean, c'mon, we've got work to do."

The gleam in Dean's eyes tells Sam that work is the last thing on Dean's mind right now. Sam really does consider arguing but this whole brother thing, man – it's got him feeling some type of weird but aroused, and the latter's definitely stronger than the former.

Dean takes the can of gas Sam was holding and sets it down on the ground, backing Sam up against the cool metal wall of the tractor's hood. He doesn't have his hands on Sam – yet – but Sam's automatically reaching for Dean's bare hips anyway.

"Mmhm, we've got work alright. Wanna work my mouth all up and down that big cock of yours, brother." Dean's voice gets lower and sexier and yeah, Sam's will to even try to put up a fight are gone. He pulls Dean towards him, sun-warm and smelling of exhaust fumes and earth.

Sam swallows, his mouth gone dry from Dean's closeness and hot words. "Think that should be little brother." Sam's younger than Dean by fiveish months.

"Fuck yeah, Sammy. Can't tell you how bad I've got it for my baby bro." Dean leans in and as soon as their lips brush it's like a wild fire. Sam feels his skin crackle and burn, the hot rush teeming down his spine and through his loins. Fuck, he wasn't expecting this to bone him up this much but he's hard as a rock right now in his jeans.

Dean kisses him hard, really hard, for a precious handful of seconds before he pulls away, his fingers working at the fly of Sam's jeans. "Fucking love how tall and sexy you got. Knew you were gonna be a looker when you got older Sammy, don't know how proud I am to call you mine." Dean shoves the button through its hole and hooks his fingers in the waistband, pushing his jeans down to mid-thigh.

"Fuck, Dean, don't stop talkin'." Sam watches Dean as he sinks to his knees and palms Sam's cock through his boxers.

"Kinda have to, baby boy, mouth's gonna be full in in a minute." Dean licks Sam's right hip, already tugging Sam's underwear down to join his jeans. The light coming through the missing slats in the roof spotlights Dean, hitting his dark blonde hair and making those jade-green eyes sparkle.

"Can't wait to feel your mouth on me big bro – no one sucks me off better than' you" Sam's accent gets strong when he's turned on, and Dean kind of melts into him as he drawls out every sweet word.

"Damn right, Sammy – I'm yours, and only yours. Never have wanted anyone near as bad I as I want you." Dean leans back as Sam's cock swings up and out of his underwear, pointing out and up, causing a small string of precome to land across Dean's chin. Dean's tongue is immediately there to lick it up and he wraps the fingers of his left hand around Sam's cock, milking him really slowly so that another drop comes out, then another, beading at the slit and Sam dies a little as Dean swirls his tongue around the glans, savoring every bit of it.

Sam puts his fingers in Dean's hair, keeping eye contact with him as Dean swallows first the head, his tongue teasing up and down the underside of it before his lips move even further, past his circumcision scar and then Dean's halfway down his cock.

"Look so fuckin' sexy with your mouth full of my cock, big bro" Sam whispers. He runs his fingers through Dean's hair, feeling the ready, never truly resting energy Dean radiates. Dean smiles up at him around his dick, his other hand cupping and tugging at Sam's balls, loose and full from the heat.

Sam thinks he's going to have it easy today, that all he has to do is enjoy the warm, silky heat of Dean's mouth.

Turns out he's wrong.

Dean's big thing lately has been to see how close he can get to deep throating Sam – not an easy task – and today is no difference. That he's gross from yard work and sweating doesn't seem to occur to him; Dean sucks him better than Sam can remember, not letting Sam get used to any one thing before he's changing it up and Sam's struggling to hold on.

Sam's breathing so loudly from Dean's efforts that he's sure someone's going to hear him. He's lost track of time and he knows that Mary closes up the shop early on Saturdays and if she doesn't hear or see them working, well, she's going to come looking for them.

"Dean, baby, we gotta-fuck, Dean do that again." Sam looks down at Dean- he's got just the head in his mouth and is jerking Sam off with this awesome twist/stroke motion of his hand, gliding smooth from Dean's spit. Between that and Dean's eyes blown wide with how fucking turned on he is to have Sam's penis in his mouth, Sam's not going to last much longer.

Dean leans back, his mouth just barely off the end of Sam's cock. "Want you to come all over my face Sammy, want you to fucking cover me and then feed it back to me while you jerk me off." Dean's voice is rough and fucked out but what he wants – Sam has to fulfill that request.

Sam doesn't see it but he definitely feels his orgasm, one hand gripping the tractor behind him and the other in Dean's hair, holding on for dear life. His whole body lights up with each pulse, coming all over Dean's face and chest, white-hot light bursting from his lower body and wringing him dry.

"Fuck… fuck, fuck fuck, _fuck"_ \- It's all Sam can manage, and Dean's on his feet in a second, his shorts – sans underwear - already on the ground as he places himself in Sam's arms. Sam catches a quick glimpse of Dean's face and holy shit, he's plastered with spunk. It drips down his nose and cheeks and makes his already sweat-damp hair stick even more to his forehead.

"Kiss me, baby boy." Sam gets his senses together and he's greedy for it, the taste of himself and Dean comingled. Dean's so hard that he feels like the barest touch will set him off, his dick wet with precome where he's leaked all over himself – absolutely nothing gets Dean going like sucking Sam off.

Dean's got his right hand on the back of Sam's head and his fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him hard against his mouth, moaning into Sam's teeth while Sam's hand strips his cock. Dean's cut like Sam so he keeps his movements focused right on the head, each movement feeling like it lifts Dean nearly off the ground. He knows Dean's close from how much he's shaking and Sam tightens the hold of his left arm around Dean's body, keeping them pressed together, back to chest, held together by sweat and desperation and then Dean's coming, heavy, loud splatters against old, musty pine floor.

Together they sink down against the tractor's back tire, chests heaving and the dirt from the barn making muddy rivers as the sweat drips down their bodies.

Sam offers his come-covered hand to Dean and he licks up every drop, interspersed with wet kisses from Sam. Sam's lost in it, Dean and _brother_ and want still pounding in his head. If Dean hadn't drained him so thoroughly he'd have him in the house in a minute, balls deep in his ass and mowing the grass be damned.

One last kiss and Dean finally pulls away, laying with his head against Sam's damp shoulder. "Fuck, Sammy that… that was amazing."

"We're gonna have to be careful with that."

"With what?"

"The whole uh, brother thing." Sam has to whisper it for fear of starting back up again.

Dean wriggles a little like he's trying to will his body to not respond. "I'm just glad that it turns you on as much as it does me."

"Yeah, no shit." Sam presses a kiss to Dean's temple. "But I don't think it's wrong. I mean… I've always kind of thought of you as blood anyway."

Dean smiles and turns to look Sam in the eye. "Yeah?"

"Definitely." Sam reaches for Dean's hand and squeezes their fingers together. Any other time the hard rubber of the tractor's tire and the dirty floor would be incredibly uncomfortable but for now… it's exactly where Sam wants to be.

Dean gives Sam another little kiss. "Do we have to get up?"

Sam fishes Dean's phone out of the pile of his shorts. "We've got a few more minutes before Mom gets home."

"Good."

As it turns out, tractor tires aren't really that terrible to make out against.

They're done with yard work by the time Sam Senior gets home with time to spare. Sam's putting away the trimmer when he sees him come up the driveway. Even from his distant vantage point he can tell he's beat – best for them to be quiet and out of the house if possible.

Dean helps Sam push the barn door shut and makes like he's about to grab Sam again. "Soooo wanna go mess around some more?" Dean winks and grins, the absolute picture of corruption if Sam's ever seen it.

"Actually, I want to knock some of this grass off and then lunch."

"And then I _get_ you off, right?"

Sam sighs and rubs his face. "Dean, no."

Dean's smile doesn't flag. "Whatever you say Sammy, you know you can't resist."

Sam ignores Dean and makes his way to the back side of the house. "If you don't behave I won't rinse you off."

Dean unravels the hose off its spool while Sam turns the spigot on. He's already standing with his arms held out, ready for Sam to rinse him off.  
"You shouldn't actually look forward to being hosed down with cold water, you know that right?"

Dean shrugs. "It makes my nipples perky."

Sam makes sure to not have the pressure turned up too high. "And there are a million other ways to make that happen instead of me washing you like a draft horse."

Dean nods his head towards Sam's crotch. "Think you're the one who's part Clydesdale, Sammy."

Sam "accidentally" sprays Dean in the face and then turns the hose on himself, leaving Dean sputtering as he wipes the cold water from his eyes.

"Sorry Dean, the hose slipped." Sam shivers with relief as the water runs down the his neck and back, Dean glaring at him the whole time.

"It's a good thing I love you, you know that right?"

Sam blows him a kiss. "Good – I'm very loveable. For me, not just my body parts that you have obscene fascinations with."

"Hey, if you'd been fucked by your own dick you'd say the same thing. Shit's good Sammy." Dean turns around and wiggles his butt – like it's going to provoke Sam if he tries hard enough.

"Dean, unless you put it away the hose might slip again. Do you really want that to happen?" Sam pours water over his chest and Dean's attention is fixated. He pops his pecs a little and then rubs them over with his hand, knowing full well that it's making his dusting of chest hair lay flat and pretty.

"Uh… no, no I don't."

"I know you can. Dad's home now, just in case you didn't know, and we probably need to find something outdoorsy to occupy our time with." Sam finishes rinsing himself off and starts to head for the house.

"I've had enough of outside – time for indoor activities." The lascivious look is back in Dean's eyes; he eyes Sam up like he's trying to decide where to put his mouth first.

"Was that whole thing in the barn not enough, or am I seeing things?"

"Hey, _you're_ the one who decided to grope their tits at me. I'm only human, Sammy, what did you expect?"

Sam starts to say something but to be fair, Dean does have a point, even though he was only trying to be an ass.

Sam heads downstairs and kicks off his shoes, jeans and underwear getting tossed into the laundry basket while he lets himself air out, walking around naked as he uses yesterday's towel to dry off and checking his phone for messages. Dean doesn't even pretend he's not watching, his eyes tracking every movement of Sam's body.

"Okay, now you're just _trying_ to be provocative."

"Just testing your willpower, babe." Sam digs a clean pair of boxer briefs out of the drawer and puts them on, glad to no longer feel quite as sticky. "C'mon Dean, I'm hungry, and you know Mom doesn't like it when we dirty up her kitchen."

Dean strips and makes sure to twitch his hips as he walks past Sam, knowing full well his ass looks good right now and trying with all of his being to get Sam to cave.

Sam just blows him another kiss and pulls on a pair of clean gym shorts before he heads back upstairs.

There's left over ham from a few nights before so Sam makes a couple of sandwiches for himself and Dean, making sure Dean's sandwich is positively dripping with mustard. Sam's not one for mustard but watching Dean's lips and chin get coated with it, well… it has certain associative imagery.

He's pouring them both glasses of sweet tea when Dean appears beside him, wearing a pair of Sam's jeans with the hems rolled up over his feet and his Brahms t-shirt.

"I'm buying you like, four football jerseys for Christmas." Dean takes his sandwich and drink and sits down at the bar.

"Why, so you can come steal them and wear them?" Sam joins him and pulls his stool closer, the sides of their bare feet touching.

"Exactly – all of your shirts are so… _you."_

Sam chuckles. "Aw, c'mon – Brahms looks good on you."

"And if one my teammates knew I wore my boyfriend's dorky t-shirts, they'd laugh until I hung myself. Actually, scratch that – if I had a _boyfriend."_ Dean takes an unnecessarily large bite of his sandwich and hooks his foot around Sam's ankle.

"I kind of like that only a few people know." Sam leans over to kiss the side of Dean's mouth and ends up tasting mustard. Gross.

Dean swallows and takes a gulp of sweet tea. "Kinda hard to be discrete sometimes."

"I know." Sam uses his free hand to take Dean's and thread their fingers together. "But there's always plenty of time later to tell people."

"Such as?"

Sam squeezes Dean's hand and scoots a little closer to him on the stool. "After we've moved out and have our own money?"

"Or we could just stay at my house until then. I mean, John's still wrapping his head around it but he's not kicked me out quite yet."

"Good money says that he'd at least tell Mom and Dad why I've changed my permanent address to your place." Sam lets Dean's hand go and reaches for a napkin. "That might raise a few eyebrows."

Dean's got a dreamy look in his eyes, a half-smile curling his lips. "Sorry, I was thinking about you, me, and a permanent address together."

"And you call _me_ sappy."

Mary's arrival quashes any further thoughts on the subject, but Sam says the name "Sam Winchester" in his head just to see how it makes him feel.

Happy and warm, more than anything else.

Sunday brings the unfortunate reality of homework.

Sam, in an effort to better utilize his time, has been trying hard to get up early on Sunday mornings so that the daylight hours are free for other activities – like practicing, composing (Sam doesn't consider himself good at it but he's yet to not find satisfaction in making some of his own ideas come to life) and spending quality time with Dean. Sundays normally mean slow, warm sex or going swimming (even in October) or doing whatever they like without interruption – provided Sam gets his work done beforehand.

Whether or not Dean does any schoolwork with Sam is entirely on him; however, given that his coach is _extremely_ clear about his players having good grades, Dean must do his work at some point. Besides, Sam likes to watch Dean sleep in his bed, where nothing can bother him save for Sam – and even that's rare. He lets Dean wake up of his own accord.

Sam finishes up his calculus (math is awful but Sam's freakishly good at it) first so that he doesn't have to make himself suffer any longer than necessary. Next comes English – which means reading four chapters of _Out of Africa_ \- and Sam tries to appreciate everything they read in class but man, E.M. Forester just isn't his cup of tea. Come to think of it, the only people who would consider this easy reading are those weird literary masochists that Sam sits behind in his AP English Lit class; Sam can't quite find their fascination with some of this stuff, try as he might.

Ah well – he and Dean quite a lot together, and should he ever want to discuss this stuff in depth his Dad's always up for a good talk. (Sam comes by his love of books honestly.)

The thick, wordy sentences that Mr. Forester spends are enough to put Sam back to sleep around nine thirty and he nods off on the couch, the book open on his chest and Dean's soft snore in the background lulling him off.

He's awakened an hour later by Dean trying to move him back to bed.

Sam's on his feet before he's actually opened his eyes, and it's not until he feels Dean's warm arm around his waist that he comes to.

"Dean, where we gon'?"

"Back to bed. Kind of to see you on the couch when there's a perfectly good bed not ten feet away. Makes me feel like I've kicked you out for some reason, and I don't like that."

Sam smiles and kisses Dean's temple, stopping where they stand. "Wasn't planning on going back to bed, baby. Just that every time I make progress on that book it knocks me out cold."

Dean takes the yellow-jacketed book from Sam's hand and inspects the cover. "See, this is why I stick with regular classes – we actually read stuff that we stand a chance of finishing in one lifetime."

"You've changed your tune since last year." Sam grins and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt back down where it had gotten rucked up around his middle. "I believe your words were 'man, I wish we could have read _Leaves of Grass.'_ Was that not what you said?"

"Only because you make it sound so good when you read out loud." Sam has hazy memories of them at their swimming hole last summer, the sun drying the come on their chests and bellies where they'd rubbed off and Sam had read parts of "Song of Myself" as foreplay. Never let it be said that Dean Winchester doesn't have some interesting kinks.

Dean gets behind Sam and wraps his arms around his body. "How much more do you have left?" Sam knows what he's doing – Dean thinks those hot lips and sure hands will draw Sam in for some fooling around and he won't want to be productive any further. Sam almost lets him get away with it, too, especially when Dean starts kissing his neck and scritching his chest.

Sam shrugs Dean off and with an incredible amount of reluctance, stands up. "Enough to where I can't indulge that thought yet."

Dean flops down on the bed, disappointment clouding his features as he frowns up at him. "Look, I dig the whole gentleman and scholar thing but right now…" Dean rubs his crotch through his shorts and tries awfully hard to look seductive.

Sam rubs Dean's knee in sympathy and picks his hand up to kiss it. "I know, but I'd rather get it done so that we can maybe, just _maybe,_ take our time later this afternoon. If you catch my drift." Sam lets lust deepen his voice and yep, Dean gets it. It takes a second but once the realization hits Dean's eyes go wide and he's shoving Sam up.

"What are you waiting for, Sammy, get cracking – this ass isn't gonna fuck itself."

Sam lets that image drift for a moment, smiling. "Well… yes it can and as fun as that is to watch, I'd really, _really_ like to do it myself today. Been a couple weeks since-"

"We fucked, yeah, I know. Been missin' you something awful, baby boy." Dean stands up and pulls Sam in by the front of his shirt, a little too forcefully but holy fucking shit, it's hot. Dean's mouth is a too-close inch from Sam's and it's pure instinct when Sam tips his head to give Dean a quick peck on the lips.

Sam thought at least that would be good enough.

"Don't think you're gonna get away with just that, Sammy." Dean's got that hungry look in his eyes and Sam _has_ to give in; kissing the quarterback with the green eyes as often as possible really should be something Sam does a lot more of – not that it would make the least bit of difference if Dean was the captain of the debate team, because it wouldn't.

Still, there's a beautiful exclusivity that, as shallow as Sam knows it is, makes him feel _good_ to be able to shove his tongue in Dean's mouth whenever he pleases.

Dean's lips part and Sam's impatient to taste, running his tongue along Dean's teeth before he's re-memorizing the smooth, silky texture of Dean's mouth. Dean tries to pull Sam back down on the bed but Sam doesn't budge, standing firm even though he wants nothing more right now than to try and plow Dean right through the mattress.

He can feel Dean about to suck on his tongue when he pulls away, leaving them both unhappy.

"Just… give me two hours, babe, and then I'm yours."

Sam has to go upstairs to the living room to finish his work; if he hangs around Dean, absolutely nothing more will get done.

Dean does at least do him the favor of staying downstairs after Sam promises that he's not going anywhere.

Sam isn't going to vouch for his lab report being completely accurate, wanting to write in at the bottom "sorry, but I was thinking about licking my boyfriend's ass out while I was doing this." Shit, now he wants to put Dean on the table in front of him and work his tongue in and out of his body until Dean's crying for him to stop – or fuck him. Sam's down for either option right now.

He's putting the last touches on his work when Dean comes up from the basement, seeking breakfast (although it's now past lunchtime.)

Sam pretends he doesn't see him. Mean, yes, but he hates to break his promises. Not that it matters, because Dean comes over to him instead. Of course he's not wearing much clothing, just gym shorts and a smile. Sam has to bite his lip to keep from gaping because that's an aesthetic that's worked for him (on Dean anyway) for a long time now.

"I got bored and hungry." Dean sits down next to Sam on the couch and peers over what he's working on. "That looks awful."

"It is." Sam scribbles another couple lines of his conclusion and puts it down on the coffee table. "But I'm done now."

Dean's grin is bright enough to light up the whole room. "Sooo… sex now?"

"I thought you said you were hungry."

Dean starts to say something in protest – this is not the first time they've had this discussion. "I can eat after."

"Dean." Sam is not stopping again in the middle of sex because Dean's complaining about his stomach hurting.

"Fine." Dean stalks off to the kitchen and Sam decides to head back downstairs. Nothing wrong with making himself comfortable beforehand.

Dean comes back with four bananas and a couple granola bars, handing half to Sam. "Don't want you wimping out on me, Mr. Super Stud. If I have to, you have to."

Sam contemplates fellating the banana just to mess with Dean. "Oh so now I'm a _super_ stud."

Dean eats the granola bar first and scoots closer to Sam. "Well… you always are but I don't want you to get a big head over it." Dean's focus turns to Sam's crotch. "Although you've already got a permanent one."

Sam truly should be used to this by now but sometimes… "Look, flattery will get you nowhere."

"It won't?" Dean's attempt to look seductive is put off by his mouth full of banana.

"I already said we we're gonna fuck, Dean – though right now I'm second guessing that decision."

Dean swallows. "I can brush my teeth first, if that's what you're getting at. I mean, everything else is already clean so that much more won't kill me."

"Wait – _everything_ else?" Sam turns towards Dean and he sees it then, the way Dean's holding himself towards Sam like he's ready to stick them together.

"Yeah, Sammy, everything else. You were up there a long time and I thought that maybe it'd uh, it'd be a nice surprise for when you were done. Since you said we-"

Sam kisses Dean midsentence, one hand on the back of Dean's head and the other curling around his hip, his fingers following that perfect fit and ever-so-slight lovehandle that Dean can't ever seem to get rid of.

Dean moans softly and without breaking contact gets into Sam's lap, straddling his thighs and holding onto Sam as tightly as he can. Sam decides that now might be a good time to act on that whole "super stud" thing. He lifts Dean up and holds him in the air, kissing him for a long moment before he turns them and sets Dean back down on the bed.

Sam credits himself with that being the smoothest thing he's ever done before. (He's sure Dean'll be talking about that one for weeks.)

Dean pulls away from the kiss and puts his hands under Sam's shirt. "Nice and slow, remember?"

"'Course, baby." Sam sits back and pulls his shirt off from behind his head and with it Dean's hands travel up his body, groping his chest and shoulders.

Sam gaps as Dean's roughly tender hands map his chest, caressing and teasing his skin, around the curve of his pecs and over his nipples. Dean doesn't say a word, just watches Sam's face as he touches; Sam wants to lean in to kiss but Dean's got him frozen, nothing but soft, quiet moans to fill the warm, thick silence around them.

Dean pulls him in for another kiss and rubs the small of Sam's back, making Sam melt into him. It's sweet and _perfect,_ not at all what Sam ever expects from Dean when they have sex. Dean always does this, tries to make each touch significant, each kiss perfectly timed; it makes Sam's heart swell and his dick hard.

"Think we're both overdressed, Sam." Dean lets go of Sam long enough to slide his shorts down past his ankles – he's not wearing any underwear. Sam allows himself a minute to just look at Dean, broad and powerful with just a little softness around his hips, courtesy of Dean's healthy appetite.

"Just a sec, babe." Sam kisses Dean on the mouth and then he's moving down, his hands moving with his head and he dapples Dean's body with little brushes of his lips here, a slow going over with his fingers there. Dean tries to stay quiet – and Sam can tell it's taking a lot of effort to do so – but he gets louder the more attention Sam lets linger over his body. Sam's just glad that his parents are out of the house, lest they walk in on something that could be unpleasant for most everyone involved.

Sam licks the curve of Dean's hip and over his navel, looking up at him as he kisses through Dean's treasure trail and down, down, down, nosing at the short hair of Dean's trimmed pubes and past his cock, hard enough that it's pointing nearly at Dean's face.

"Sammy, _please."_ Dean has his hands on Sam's head, all ten fingers dug into the thick cascade of his hair. Sam shakes his head so that his face is obscured as he tilts Dean's legs back, making his breath ghost over Dean's sensitive inner thighs.

Sam puts a pillow under Dean's hips and kisses his perineum – Dean's falling apart fast and it's up to Sam to speed him along as fast as he can.

"Got you, Dean, I promise." Sam inhales and fuck, Dean smells clean and ready, sweat and Irish Spring competing with the sun-kissed sweetness that Sam just puts down to being pheromones.

The first touch of Sam's tongue to Dean's hole makes Dean whimper, already trying to draw his legs back more and get close to Sam. Sam puts his hands on Dean's thighs and pushes, bringing Dean even more front and center than he was before. Sam closes his eyes and licks again, swirling gently. He can taste the heat radiating from Dean's body, inviting and too hot.

Dean's fingers dig in tighter and that's the tacit permission Sam's been waiting for.

Sam's flooded with memories of the first time he did this, one ice-bitten afternoon after school. Dean's parents had been out and it had been just he and Dean in the house, making out on the sofa between rounds of Call of Duty. Sam remembers Dean just putting down his controller and kissing him really deeply, one of those beautiful, slow-burn sorts that Sam had stored away for future reminiscing – the next thing he knew, Dean was face down on the couch and his ass was in the air, begging Sam to eat him out.

It still gets Sam hot and bothered to think about it.

"Sammy, babe, Sam-" Dean sounds a wreck, and Sam looks up at his face, his whole body flushed pink from Sam getting lost in the memory and apparently driving Dean crazy.

"Wassit, Dean?" Sam wipes his mouth and tries again. "What is it?"

Dean leans forward, kissing Sam between words. "You were going a little too hard – I felt your tongue like, inside me." Dean lays back and brings Sam down on top of him. "Wasn't bad, just... intense."

Sam hides his smile in Dean's neck. "You say that now, but just wait 'til I'm inside you."

"Oh I know, baby boy – just that no one else has ever gotten that into eating ass."

"Says he who has texted me on multiple occasions the words 'come over, your ass is for dinner and it's an all-night buffet.'" Sam's not lying – Dean's put him face down more than once and not let him up until Sam had come multiple times just from being eaten out.

"Well… you give more than I do." Dean tilts Sam's head up and kisses him, slow and sloppy. Sam rubs himself against Dean's body, still in his jeans. Dean's leaking so much that he leaves precome spots all over the front of Sam's pants every time the head rubs against him. Once Sam realizes the friction is making Dean feel all sorts of good, he grinds against him a little harder and takes Dean's hands in his, putting them above his head.

"Sh… shit," Dean whispers, Sam's mouth on his neck.

"Like that?"

Dean nods. "It's nice, but Sammy, _god_ , I want you inside me." Dean's voice is all shaky with desperation and like hell if Sam's going to hold out on him any longer.

Still doesn't mean he's not going to draw it out for them.

Sam stands and takes his jeans off, his underwear barely hanging onto his body where the elastic's worn. Dean rubs him through it while Sam gets his pants from around his ankles and nearly makes him lose his balance.

"Handsy."

"No, horny." Dean helps him along with getting naked and soon after Sam's back on top of Dean rutting against him and making out like it's the last time they'll get to do so.

Sam slips his hand between them and rubs at Dean's hole, still wet with his spit. "Think you're open enough?"

"I kind of stretched myself out in the shower earlier." Dean's cheeks color red with guilt and congratulations for himself.

"And you didn't let me help… why?"

"Because, I'm a good boyfriend and didn't want to distract you." Dean kisses Sam and reaches for the lube he must have stashed under the pillow earlier. "But now you have no excuse."

Sam takes the lube, not moving. "So you got the lube but not a rubber?"

Dean turns his face away from Sam. "Uh, about that Sammy – I don't want to use one today."

"Are you sure? I mean-"

"I know it's risky – but Sammy, there's never been anyone else but you, I promise." Dean cups Sam's face and kisses him. "Don't want anyone else, jus' you, baby boy."

Sam hopes Dean doesn't see the sudden glaze of tears in his eyes. "You're kind of ruining me for anyone else, you know that right?"

"Good – only want you ruined for me."

Lube gets applied eventually, and Sam mostly has to move by feeling because he's otherwise occupied with kissing Dean. Dean has his legs spread open as wide as they'll go, held in invitation and Sam can't quiet accept yet, partly from hesitance at fucking Dean without protection and because Dean moans so prettily when he wants Sam to fuck him.

"C'mon, Sammy, 'm ready." Dean tugs at Sam's hips, his lips wet and kiss swollen.

"Just… don't be mad if I don't last long, okay?"

"Promise I won't be, baby." Dean kisses him again and helps Sam ease into him, his breath catching in his throat as Sam fills him up, nothing between them and fuck, Dean's so _warm_ that Sam's own breath is stolen away.

Neither of them stop draw breath until Sam's buried balls deep.

"How… how's it feel, Sammy?" Dean close his legs around Sam's back, keeping Sam from going too far. Good thing Sam wasn't planning on doing so.

"Warm, babe, really, _really_ warm." Sam gently thrusts his hips, just an inch. It makes him see a couple different constellations behind his eyelids and his body feel simultaneously light and heavy.

"Good." Dean rubs his neck and the back of his head, his voice barely a whisper. "Nice and slow, Sammy."

Sam can do nice and slow, hell he can do nice and slow without any problem.

Dean's normally one to demand being pile-drived and while Sam doesn't normally take issue with that, this is so much better. Each movement of his hips is met with a kiss, all close heat too much tongue. Sam loves it though, absolutely and completely – Dean's never more honest than when Sam is inside him, and right now there's no hiding from each other, just the two of them.

Sam doesn't want to exaggerate but this is pretty fucking perfect.

He also really wasn't looking to stop but Dean puts a hand on his chest and breaks their kiss.

"Something wrong?"

"No – just… hang on." Dean keeps pushing Sam back until Sam's on his haunches and Dean's climbing into his lap, those bowlegs perfect for spreading himself over Sam's body. Dean buries his face in Sam's shoulder as he sinks back down on him, gravity doing most of the work for him and leaving them both breathless again.

"Move with me, baby." Dean starts to move his hips and Sam's right with him cupping the back of Dean's head and it's so, so good, Dean's body fitted perfectly with his, kissing until his lips are on fire from being pressed to Dean's for so long.

When Dean comes, Sam feels it more than anything – the tight clench of muscle around his cock, the warm, sticky spatter of Dean's come as it coats his chest and stomach, Dean's teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Sam follows right behind him and there are those stars again, bright and Dean-shaped.

He doesn't even realize his legs are throbbing until Dean makes him lay back down, his feet towards the headboard and Dean still straddling him. Sam keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to let go of the feeling until he absolutely has to.

Dean, of course, ruins the moment when he puts his fingers to Sam's mouth, covered in his spunk.

Sam sucks them clean alright, but he fixes Dean with a glare.

"What?" He's still inside Dean, so at least he's not let go of that yet.

"I was basking. First time bareback, good, slow sex – ring any bells?"

"Can't change a tiger's stripes Sammy – I wanna swap come with you."

Before Sam has a chance to protest, Dean's tongue and come is in his mouth, making his brain go all fuzzy and his body slack.

Alright, fine – he can just as well bask later.


End file.
